Have Gat—Will Travel by Richard S. Prather

been shot two or three times with a forty-five and lived. Those little slugs poked holes in Danny, and shook him up, but they didn't kill him."
    They just about half believed me. Even Foster. But it wouldn't last forever and I knew it. A bluff has to work only long enough for the man to toss in his hand, but to do me any good, this one had to work longer. I was praying that Foster would actually phone and talk to Billings. But even if that should make Billings wonder plenty after what I'd told him, it would still take ten minutes after the call for him to get out here — even if the police could trace the call.
    Foster said, "We talked to the police. They said he was dead."
    "I doubt that. I imagine you did most of the talking. Besides, what would you expect them to say? They still don't know who shot Danny. I told Billings who did it, though."
    Foster tugged at his ear, then moved to the phone, keeping the gun pointed at me. I looked at Stone, at Jason. "You're the men who should be scared and running. You might make it if you started now."
    Foster dialed. I held my breath, but then he said, "Who? Mr. Grant? This is Victor Foster. About Danny Hasting's body . . . I don't believe he has any relatives near here. I'd like to be sure he has a decent funeral . . . Yes."
    Foster was grinning while he looked at me. And with good enough reason. The bluff had worked; he'd phoned. But he hadn't called Billings, or even the police. He'd called Grant, at the morgue. And Danny was in the morgue.

    H e talked for a few more seconds, his grin widening. Then he hung up. And this time he wasn't going to listen to any more conversation. He was going to kill me right now. I bent forward, tensing my leg muscles.
    And then we heard it. We all heard it, the still distant, but clear, sound of a siren. Foster didn't take his eyes or the muzzle of the automatic off me, but Judge Jason walked to the window and raised the shade. "It's coming up here," he said. "They are. Several cars. It's police, I can see the red lights. I . . ." He let it trail off.
    I heard Stone jump toward the window as the siren got louder, but my eyes were on Foster. If they were police cars, I didn't know how or why they'd come here, but I knew they must be for me. And I waited for Foster to take his eyes off me for one second. He did. He looked toward Jason and Stone at the window, the gun muzzle wavering away from me.
    I lunged forward, bent over, and dived at him. The gun roared with a deafening crash almost in my ear; the bullet burned across the skin of my neck, and then I hit him, legs driving, and slammed him back against the wall with a crash that shook the little house. My shoulder ground into his side and cut off the yell that ripped from his throat. His hand clawed across my face and I swung my right fist at him, knuckles bouncing off his arm. The gun dropped, and then Foster had squirmed away from me.
    He was scuttling across the floor on all fours. Jason and Stone were piling out the door and I saw them turn, start toward the back of the house. The siren was screaming almost in our ears now, and I could hear cars sliding to a stop in front. Foster got to his feet, as I slapped my hand against the automatic, raised it in my fist.
    "Hold it, Foster! One step and I'll kill you," I shouted.
    He was almost at the door. He turned his head around, face panic-stricken, then made his mistake. He gave one big leap toward the doorway and I fired. I aimed low and the heavy slug caught him while he was still in the air. It slammed his body around with a sudden wrench, drove him against the door frame. He bounced against it, fell to the floor and lay there with his hands clawing at the carpet.
    Then the room was full of policemen. I couldn't remember seeing so many cops in one place at the same time. I took a few minutes, but Foster was still conscious and he talked to Billings just as eagerly as he'd earlier talked to me. I filled in anything he forgot, or otherwise